


Silks

by redsoles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Fashion & Couture, High Heels, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Multi, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsoles/pseuds/redsoles
Summary: Part 1 of ?: An accident at a bar. A familiar face.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 28
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago, I had a discussion on Tumblr about how Hermione and Pansy could form a healthy, understanding relationship as adults, given their past. This is my attempt at that story.

I.

She orders another wine. 

She doesn’t really need to be here, and she’s starting to wonder why she actually is. It’s just some work function, and they’re all the same — someone’s birthday, a promotion, the end of a long week, same bar, same people, her in the same pair of slacks leaning against the same spot at the end of the bar with her same glass of wine. 

It would probably serve her well to at least pretend she’s enjoying herself, to make nice with her coworkers. It’s at the point where some of these people are even her subordinates. She’s done well in her career, and while she has learned to acknowledge that part of that comes from her name and her friends, she also knows that she is smarter than everyone else around her, and she deserves how far she’s come. Her partner has helped her come to terms with accepting praise, sometimes. Sometimes, now, she feels okay with indulging in herself, her own wants, her own ambitions. She had always been so concerned about pleasing other people. At 30, she’s only just learning how to verbalize her own needs. 

She thinks, sometimes, this is the real magic: a woman acknowledging her own self. 

The ministry, and the work she’s done there, has been good. It has been powerful, it has helped a lot of people. Her path was, at the start of it, so clear and straight. She’d been so young and ready to take on the world. Now, she was so tired. She was impossibly tired, and she falls asleep the minute her head hits the pillow every night, sometimes with the lights still on, sometimes not having eaten since noon. Weariness is the cloak she always wears. The wine helps, but sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes she orders another glass anyway, and forces a smile when sometime asks her if she’s having fun. And she nods when they pull her along to dance. 

***

It’s only for a week, she tells herself. She can survive London for a week. 

She’s in town for meetings, some involve showing the spring collection to retailers and magazine editors, some with photographers and other creatives who might take on new projects for her. This thing, however, is just schmoozing — drinks with editors, critics, models. It’s an ass-kissing party. Pansy rolls her ankle, feels the point of the stiletto heel against the floor.

It would probably serve her well to at least pretend she’s enjoying herself. She’s supposed to be impressing these people, charming them into signing contracts with the Atelier. Hadn’t she always been good at that, at charming her way into things without putting in any actual work? Hadn’t she always been able to get what she wanted? But Pansy wasn’t sure she was that person anymore, wasn’t sure she could slip back into that old dress. She hadn’t always been the best student, she knew that now. It wasn’t until later that she learned to apply herself. It wasn’t until she was buried under piles of paperwork that she learned she couldn’t pay anyone else to do this for her, and she had to buckle down and get shit done. It wasn’t until she was on her own that she learned how to be a full, self-aware person, separate from the name her family had made. It was all well and good in school, when it there weren’t any real threats or consequences, and they talked about all the great things they would do as adults, all the worlds they would overtake, all of the others who would someday lay at their feet, while simultaneously having no idea how they’d actually make that happen. It was all just childish talk, back then. They didn’t know any better, they’d all been so sheltered. They didn’t know the truth of it. 

She thinks, now, this is true ambition: digging into the depths of her and pulling out a willfulness she didn’t know she had; a witch withstanding the burn.

That doesn’t mean she’s not fucking bored sometimes, though. And these people are so horribly boring. 

Instead of leaving she decides it’s better to just step outside for a cigarette, and she moves sideways through the crowd, trying to balance her drink and her distaste for this proximity to other people. She can feel the beat of the music pulsating from the speakers, and she remembers leaning her head against a girl’s chest and hearing her heart beat, one-two, one-two. It was a long time ago, now. Another city, another version of herself. She’s shed so many skins. 

She really isn’t looking at anything when she sees that familiar dash of brown curls.

The truth is that she doesn’t actually think about Hermione Granger ever. She doesn’t think about any of them. She keeps herself busy enough, distant enough, distracted enough. She doesn’t think about her school days, and when people ask she brushes them off. Oh, it was such a long time ago, she says. Oh, I was so focused on my schoolwork. Oh, that wasn’t my circle. Oh, Oh, Oh. 

And she ignores the memories that surface during the soft moments before sleep, when all she wants is to fade into darkness for the few hours she actually gets, but instead she is haunted by her own voice: " But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!” She doesn’t think about it. On those nights, she takes a sleeping potion and hopes for 5 hours, and ends up with about 3. 

And when Hermione Granger catches her eyes for that split second just as they passed each other, she doesn’t think about all the terrible things she used to say, and the hollow in the pit of her stomach, and how she’d always been jealous of those curls, and how scared she’d been at 16, how dark it became around her. She doesn’t think about it at all. 

And when she heads towards the bar, maneuvering her hips through the crowd, she doesn’t keep an eye out for where her old schoolmate might be, and she certainly doesn’t make sure she’s on the complete opposite side of the room.

So when they actually do bump into each other, later on and two more drinks in, it totally isn’t her fault. The wine sloshes over the side of her glass and spills onto Hermione’s silk top, leaving a splash of wetness in the fabric. 

“Oh shit, goddamnit…” Pansy is surprised by the language the other woman uses, but she supposes they’re adults now. And, after all she went through, there were bound to be parts of her that were hardened. 

Hermione, who hasn’t noticed or doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that they know each other, starts to pull away, heading back to the bathroom to fix herself. But Pansy knows that won’t come out of silk easily, and grabs her arm to keep her there. “Stop, hold on.” Pansy takes a small glass spray bottle out of the delicate crossbody bag that’s slung over one shoulder. It’s a potion she keeps with her at all times. Pansy spritzes the fabric once, twice, again, and reaches forward to tug on the fabric just slightly, smooth it out, her fingers gentle with the silk. In an instant, the stain is gone, the silk dry. Pansy pulls her hands back. 

“Oh, thank you - “It is at this moment that Hermione looks up and acknowledges her, which shouldn’t feel as hurtful as it does. Pansy can see it in her eyes, a split second of ‘I know that face’, then the lightbulb moment, the memories resurfacing, the same memories that Pansy had been steadily ignoring. She doesn’t blame Hermione for that at all, but in that moment, they both know. Pansy didn’t have to be nice, she could have ignored it, and Hermione knows that it is out of character considering the information she has. Confusion, on both ends. 

Pansy is taller, but she is also in six-inch heels which is cheating. They’d be about the same height otherwise, she thinks. In her mind she imagines kicking off her shoes, leveling herself, equal ground. She imagines herself feeling steady.

“Uh…what is that spray?” Hermione asks. It’s more polite than Pansy expected. 

“It’s called Dryspell” she answers, holding out the bottle to show her. “It’s pretty cheap, I keep one in my bag and one in my desk. Total lifesaver.” 

“I’ll have to go find some.”

“Take this one, I’ve got - ” Pansy waved her hand, it’s no big deal - “a ton of samples at home.”

Hermione takes the bottle offered to her, and holds it like it might leak on her, like she doesn’t know what else to do. “Much appreciated.” 

“I’ll um, let you get back to…” 

“Alright, yes. Have a good night.” 

But Pansy doesn’t move, and what comes out of her mouth next surprises her: “I’m sorry. About the spill and…” 

The music doesn’t actually stop, but she wishes it would. She wishes the crowd around them would stop moving, she wishes the lights were brighter, she wishes she wasn’t drunk. But she is, she did it on purpose, the lights are low and the music is loud so it’s possible Hermione didn’t even hear, which would be the best situation. She isn’t even supposed to be here, she’s supposed to be working, sort of, ass-kissing, pretending, selling, being the version of herself she worked so hard to become. She hopes the crowd moves around her and swallows her up whole; she hopes she fades into the sea of bodies and disappears. 

Pansy watches Hermione’s face turn. There had been a sort of passive indifference, a mix of ‘why is she talking to me, I have somewhere else to be’ and refined politeness. But she can see a series of thoughts passing behind her eyes now as Hermione considers, as she takes a look at the woman in front of her and the chasm of space and experience between them. 

“This isn’t the time or place, Parkinson.” 

She says it with such authority and assuredness that Pansy is stunned for a moment, and perhaps the music does stop, perhaps the room pauses just for the split second it takes for something to change. But the night goes on around them, and the hours spin on.

II.

Pansy presses one hand against the wall of her hotel room, lifts one foot to remove her shoe, then the other. She stands on the hardwood floor, six inches less than before. She goes to the bathroom and removes her makeup with a cloth wipe, leaving an impression of herself against the white of it - black smudges from her eyes, the redfrom her lips softened, smudged. She pulls her red dress up over her head and leaves it on the floor. 

Wine always makes her feel fuzzy, hazy. She didn’t used to react this way, and she didn’t used to have to worry about a potential hangover. But being 30 had snuck up on her. Time was incredibly rude. She turned on the shower and stood under the water, only leaving when her skin started to feel dry. She applies coconut oil from head to toe. Toner, serums for moisture and balance, eye cream, and thick nighttime moisturizer. When the lights turn off, she is alone.

What had she said? What had either of them said? 

What was this taste in her mouth?

***

Hermione does not turn the lights on, but undresses in the dark. She knows he’s asleep, as he usually is, under layers of quilts his mother made for their bed, her atonement for the fight they’d had over not wanting to get married. They were acceptance quilts, part of the family quilts. Her partner called them living-in-sin quilts. 

She undresses and leaves her clothes on the armchair in the corner, the one she used to use for reading. She’s too tired to read as much anymore, and her hand brushes along her bookshelf as she heads into the bathroom. She can feel the dust on the shelves. Hermione washes her face with soap, dries herself off. She ties her hair up in a silk headwrap and rubs a little coconut oil and shea butter on before going to bed. It’s the same kind her mother used to use. 

In the darkness, she thinks she isn’t nearly as drunk as she wishes. Maybe after all these years, her tolerance has gotten better. Maybe she doesn’t feel it like she used to, like when she first had a drink at a school party all those years ago. Or maybe she has to swim in deeper water now. 

It isn’t like it used to be. She isn’t like she used to be. 

And it seeps into her skin.

To be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A High Street, a pair of shoes.

In the morning, she goes to look Pansy up on the internet, and it takes a moment before she realizes that she wouldn’t be online. Sometimes she forgets how unusual her hybrid life is, how uncomfortable it makes the people around her. Some get it, those who grew up like her, and her partner has come around to the efficiency of having a phone when they’re in the city. When they visit his family, they leave their phones at home. And she forgets, sometimes, that the old ways run so deep, that magic can smell like money or the countryside and sometimes both, that the line she straddles is thick and impenetrable. 

There would be information about her somewhere, and she sends a note off to her sister-in-not-law asking for anything she might be able to find. She supposes there might be an alumni newsletter of some kind, or someone who knows someone who knows her family. Though, there aren’t as many of those type of people around anymore. 

So much has changed. 

Hermione touches her fingers gingerly to the line of her chin, presses on the skin gently until she feels strong bone underneath. 

Because it isn’t that she cares, she doesn’t. She doesn’t care what happened to that girl  — woman, whatever — or her family or anything. She can’t care, she has worked very hard not to care anymore, even though sometimes she cares so very very much that the whole world gets stuffed inside her mouth and she gags on it, and it aches and it aches and the oceans spill into her throat and every joint creaks and the in her skull is a hurricane and it’s easier to just not care, not even a little, never again. 

She doesn’t go to therapy anymore, only one of them still does. He says it helps, sometimes, even just to talk about his day at work, or how much trouble they’ve had trying to get pregnant. It helps sometimes just to talk, he says. Hermione feels like she does too much talking already, and sometimes she wants all the noise to stop. 

At the end of the week she promises to run out to the shops for things that they need, a new toothbrush, socks and underwear, and a new pair of trainers he can wear to work, the trainers that don’t look like trainers, right? Normally it would be something she’d order but she doesn’t really know which ones are the kind that will last him a long time, so she has to talk to a person about it. 

Theoretically, these things are supposed to be easy. Normal people do them every day. 

***

They just don’t have the products she needs here. Pansy makes a note to look up stockists of her favorite eye brightening cream when she gets back to Paris, where her skincare potions are delivered in a beautifully wrapped package to her every month, a service she pays for handsomely. She remembers, with some sentimentality now, watching her mother in front of the vanity mirror, the delicate way she would pat cream around her eyes, her sharp cheekbones, the silver-backed hairbrush that she’s run through her young daughter’s dark hair. Beauty was never a spoken demand, but an expectation — her mother, a stone silent example of the woman she was meant to be. She looks at herself sometimes, in mirrors now, as she passes the glass of storefronts, in photographs, and with the tips of her fingers she pulls back the skin of her face, accentuating the cheekbones she never seems to be able to sharpen, the weapons she lacks.It is why her hair has never been allowed to grow past her chin. It is why her mouth is always painted red. It is why she spent so many years picking at her food. 

Didn’t they all, in their youths? Didn’t they all, still? Hadn’t her mother always been a feather of a woman? 

She checks herself in the mirror of the store’s counter, a small round thing meant for the skincare specialists to use with clients. A bright ring light is perched nearby. Pansy slips a pair of oversized cat-eye sunglasses on her nose. 

London isn’t what it used to be. It seems much smaller now, and though logically she knows that’s only because she’s grown quite tall, there’s something else she can’t quite name, something that feels heavy in the air around her. It is, simply, that she isn’t the same person she was when she lived here. London is an ex-girlfriend she got bored of, a beautiful thing wearing last year’s colour, a dessert she’s had simply too much of. She wants to press her tongue against the city’s body, she wants to slash it open with sharpened scissors. 

Only one more day until she gets to go home.

Pansy pays for a less-good product and really shouldn’t have bothered going anywhere else but she’s already out and has nothing to do until the evening, and the High Street shops are still a source of comfort in a way she isn’t sure she likes, and she isn’t looking for anything in particular, but the girl, the girl, oh, the girl again, the girl with the brown curls. 

She must live around here, Pansy supposes. That’s why they keep running into each other. After all, there aren’t as many of them as there used to be. They’re bound to be drawn together like magnets. Something in the blood, isn’t it. 

And Hermione is lost, hopeless in the shops. It isn’t that she doesn’t care about the way she looks, because she does. It’s just that these things, the shoes and the clothes and caring about her hair, it takes up so much space in the brain, and she just can’t really afford that. It’s too much superfluous information to carry around, when it’s just easier to tie her hair up on top of her head and cycle the same few pairs of trousers and one nice skirt, sensible shoes, and whatever top is the most appropriate for the season. Her not-sister-in-law sends her things sometimes, which she likes. She just doesn’t have the time or the energy. 

And fuck, christ. It’s only a pair of trainers. How many types of trainers could there possibly be? Too many, apparently. The shop girl is talking her through different brands and special editions and these were worn by this famous person and these are for running but not for everyday and these were for everyday but you shouldn’t crease them and Hermione had completely checked out after two seconds of this, and was now just following the girl around and nodding along. It was only supposed to be one pair of trainers, easy in and out. 

She doesn’t even turn when a sharp, clear voice says “stop, stop, this is ridiculous.” She does look up, though, when a hand grabs her forearm. “These aren’t for you, are they?” 

Hermione, wide-eyed, shakes her head. Twice in one week, this woman? Touching her? Twice in one week? The audacity. 

“My partner.” 

“The ginger?” 

In any other situation, she’d possibly be offended. She ought to be offended. But, Pansy wasn’t wrong.  “Yes.” 

She watches Pansy turn to the shop girl and give two commands, [two](https://www.bloomingdales.com/shop/product/salvatore-ferragamo-mens-cube-leather-low-top-sneakers?ID=3135722&CategoryID=1000054#fn=ppp%3Dundefined%26sp%3DNULL%26rId%3DNULL%26spc%3D490%26spp%3D75%26rsid%3Dundefined%26smp%3DmatchNone) different brand names that she’s never heard of, both in black leather, and three minutes later the shop girl brings out two pairs of trainers that look exactly the same. Hermione says: “These look exactly the same.” 

Pansy’s fingernails tap along her jawline. “How much money are you spending?” 

“Under 100.”

The woman rolls her eyes and taps one of the [shoes](https://shop.nordstrom.com/s/nike-air-force-1-07-sneaker/3458988/full?origin=keywordsearch-personalizedsort&breadcrumb=Home%2FAll%20Results&color=black%2F%20black) on the toe. The shop girl brings the selected pair to the till.

“Now, what about for you?” 

Hermione looks at her for a moment, trying to translate what is obviously a language she doesn’t speak back into English. “What about for me?”

“You’re not going home with just a plain pair of regular old trainers for your husband and nothing for yourself.” 

“He’s not my husband,” she asserts, which is literally not even the point. 

“I don’t care. Come on.” 

Hermione isn’t really sure why she follows, but she does. She supposes it’s something about the way Pansy speaks to her, or the particular way that white dress stops in a clean line just above her knees, or the way she’s only just taken off her sunglasses, one slim metal arm pinched between two red-painted fingernails. And she is so tall. 

Pansy’s heels click against the tiled floor.

Years ago, even last week, goodness. She would have hated herself for following Pansy Parkinson through a store, or anywhere, or for being within ten feet of her, this woman who was like a click of two fingers together, sharp and precise. 

They walk through rows and rows of shoes, pairs of boots and flats and sandals all perched next to one another, little matching things waiting to be taken home, and she can’t imagine how much they all cost. The one she does pick up and flip over is marked 800, a small white sticker on the sole, and she puts it down quick as she might a hot coal. 

[The pair](https://www.net-a-porter.com/gb/en/product/535953/gianvito_rossi/105-leopard-print-calf-hair-pumps) that lands in her arms are simple, but leopard print, and a much higher heel than she’s ever worn in her life. She runs her finger over the toe, surprised to find they’re made of a soft hair of some kind. She’s never felt anything like it before. “I have nowhere to wear these.” 

“Of course you do. Wear them to work, or on a date. Wear them to the grocery store. Wear them on your back, with nothing else on.”

“You don’t know me well enough to say things like that.” 

“I don’t know you at all.” 

It surprises Hermione just how much that’s true. Really, they don’t know each other at all. They only know _about_ each other.

“I still can’t wear these. I’m not a leopard print kind of person. I’ll break my ankle.” 

“You won’t break your ankle, they’re barely four inches. Do you not know how to walk in heels?” It’s maybe rude, maybe a judgement. There’s a certain type of woman, the type of woman Pansy is, that walks in heels without rolling her ankle, that wears clothes that fit that way around her hips. 

“I know how to walk in heels.” 

“Look.” Pansy looks at her right in the eye, and Hermione suddenly feels short, which annoys her, and underdressed. It’s a new kind of shame she isn’t prepared for. “I understand that luxury isn’t for everyone. But you can be the kind of person who buys plain black sneakers for a man and then shuffles off back home. Or you can be the kind of person who wears leopard print heels just because she can.” 

Hermione doesn’t even think about it. “It must be nice for you, to be able to afford nice shoes whenever you want, but some of us work for a living.” 

She’s home an hour later, with exactly the things she set out for: new toothbrushes, socks and underwear, and a new pair of trainers he can wear to work, the trainers that don’t look like trainers. Easy. 

The heels arrive the next day, with no note. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stitch, a passing glance.

The Atelier is quiet at night, and sometimes she misses the buzzing of her team around her; the hush of fabric against fabric, that satisfying click of heels agains the wood floors as they move from one thing to another, the musicality of their voices during creative chatter. There is a delight in being busy and work being fruitful, and she is so proud. But what’s more satisfying is that she built this thing herself, herself, all alone. 

It wasn’t always like this. There was, of course, a period of rejection, the way all teenagers do. She remembers, distinctly, taking her wand and a pair of scissors into the bathroom at school after the Holidays, after having been stuffed into a dress and yanked into a hairstyle that was so painful it had given her a headache through the night. Chopping her hair off had been easy. Realizing that it wouldn’t ever grow back after that was not. 

But there was something that shifted in adulthood, when she was eighteen and left in that big empty house, some pull towards beauty and elegance that she hadn’t expected, towards preserving an aspect of their culture that was slipping so rapidly away. The old things still haunted her, so what else could she do but turn them into pearls, sew them into the hems of her skirts? It was perfect: something to do with her hands, something to do with her mothers old curtains, and something that was entirely her own. In a few days, she had made herself a golden gown that draped over her angular shoulders and tumbled down the staircase and spilled across the floors of that house like an afternoon sunbeam breaking through dark clouds. In a week, she had reshaped one of her father’s old suits to fit her widening hips, the long pins of her legs. In a month, she was ordering fabrics and thread from Milan. 

Callouses formed on her hands, her fingers ached in their joints. But she had something that took her outside of her body, made her feel like she was more than just the daughter of a daughter of a daughter, more than just an upturned nose and small round eyes and the things she had been told she had to offer. 

She remembers now, alone in the attic of an old Parisian building, those few weeks after she returned home, a place that suddenly had her name on the deed. She remembers the anger that had bubbled up inside her, a fire made from all the things she had been denied as a child. On her own at eighteen, she had quickly realized the things her parents had kept her from. She was unable to feed herself, unable to manage the finances, unable to contact people who might be able to help her, with no idea what to do next. What was she supposed to go, what was she supposed to do with herself? There had been a path set out for her, pretty Pansy would surely get married to someone important, and she’d never have to worry about anything. But the fabric of their society had been torn apart, friends and lovers had been lost, and along with them, she had lost any semblance of what her life was meant to be. In her most desperate moment, she had reached out to the mother of an ex-boyfriend, only to find that the entire family had packed up and disappeared, with no point of contact left. She had walked the length of her family’s home, back and forth a million times, her bare feet on the marble floors, walked and walked and walked until she couldn’t walk anymore, and had fallen asleep beside the kitchen fire because she had no idea what else to do. 

Some of those days are lost to hunger, to grief, delirium. She doesn’t fully remember how she got herself up off that floor, only that she did, and that it had taken her weeks to crack open the door to her mothers rooms. But there she had found a labyrinth of satin, of beading, lipsticks and serums to put in her hair, and somehow it reminder her that she could create a person out of herself, that she could build herself into the woman that she wanted to be, and now that her mother was gone, that woman could be anything she damn well wanted to be. 

She could be a woman draped in sunlight. 

***

Because it’s just that there’s a show coming up and there are so many things to do, so many things to get absolutely perfect, and really she would have gone to bed hours ago but she wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway, she would have been tossing and turning and staring at a white ceiling and wishing she was here, so isn’t it better to use these sleepless hours and be productive, and isn’t it better that she’s taking care of these things so there’s less to do in the morning, and wouldn’t she need to do them all herself anyway, and can’t she sleep when it’s over? 

Yes, she can sleep when it’s over. 

Her fingers press against the underside of a sheer fabric, something delicate made heavy with intricate beading. She pinches a single iridescent sequin between her fingernails from underneath, holding it in place as she slides a needle through its center hole and through the tulle, just between the stitches. The thread is pulled so gently, and with her nails, she guides the sequin into place, nestles it against two clear beads. There are hundreds of these little florets of sequins and beads woven into the tulle, nestled along the hem of these flowing skirts. When this is on a body, when the light hits, it will shimmer like a million stars. When she closes her eyes, which she allows herself to do for a moment, she can see it in her mind. She can see this woman walking into a party and every head in the room turning to look at her. 

Pansy holds the needle between her lips and turns the fabric around over her hand, testing it under the studio lights. Yes, perfect. When she looks up, she can see the original sketch pinned to a corkboard against the wall,one of twenty-two completely hand sewn looks she and the small team have prepared for this show. Every single moment of the show has been meticulously planned and poured over. Every look is in place, ordered and re-ordered and ordered again so that the show tells a complete story, the fabrics flow as emotional notes. Every piece has been fitted, and gone over with multiple eyes to make sure it hangs off the body in just the right way. Every stitch is perfect.

She leaves this garment on the dress form for now — it’s heavy and will need more than just her two hands to lift it off, and she can’t risk damaging it now. Once she’s cleaned up her work space and made her notes for the day, she turns the Atilier lights out and heads down one floor to her appartement, a large space that is half for her and half for storage. Large bolts of fabric lean up against the far wall, having been moved out of the way while they set up for the show. On the other side of the door, she slides her feet out of the velvet slippers she wears when she’s working and tosses her keys into a porcelain dish, strips out of her clothes and crawls right into bed. She can’t remember the last time she ate. 

***

He takes her out to dinner at the end of the week, and she wears the shoes. 

It takes her a moment to get used to walking in them, and she leaves her hand on his arm as they cross the street for extra balance. But she notices how much straighter she stands. She notices how much taller she feels. She notices, she notices, oh, she notices herself. 

***

It’s raining in when she arrives in Paris, which is just fucking typical honestly, after delays on top of delays, and she fucking steps in a huge puddle on her way to the hotel so she’s soaked up to her knees when she walks into the hotel. 

“Granger, checking in? I called a few weeks ago.” 

The woman only barely glances at her, which is probably a good thing, given the circumstances. 

She’s only here for a few days to meet with the French ministry, it’s all about playing nice, which she actually does enjoy doing. They’re always very nice to her and they have good food, and if she’s honest, she enjoys having a few days to herself. There’s something about the Parisian lifestyle here that she enjoys, even if only for a few days — she’s got a coffee place she stops in every time she’s here, and she gets herself a selection of little pastries, sits outside if it’s warm enough, and reads. Theoretically, she could do this in London too, it isn’t as if they’re short on coffee shops or pastries. But it feels different here, and she thinks part of that is because the background noise is in a language she can only just understand, so the chatter is easier to tune out. It’s easier to turn off her brain when she’s physically removed from the places where her brain is supposed to work. 

Plus, she gets a big fluffy hotel bed all to herself. 

In the morning she puts on a sensible brown skirt suit, though she’s got trousers to match this jacket too, but that feels less formal. As a dignitary, she’s here representing the English ministry, and she tries to look the part as best she can. When she heads out, she’s met with a bright sunny day, perfect for walk. She doesn’t walk as often as she’d like to; usually it’s just straight to work from her home. But today, she’s got a little extra time and does want to get a coffee, so why not?

There’s a coffee cart near the fountain at the center of the Jardin des Tuileries, and she walks through, even though it’s a bit of a detour. It’s early yet but there are still plenty of people about, tourists and young children and folks going off to work, which she enjoys watching. It’s a touristy area and the museum will open soon, so Hermione hurries along to avoid the rush of it. She’s down the road a bit and getting ready to end her slow morning when she notices, just out of the corner of her eye. 

And she stops only just long enough to see her, a figure with cropped black hair, eyes hidden by large cat-eye sunglasses, a pale pink dress flowing around her long legs stretch as she walks. 

And in a blink, she’s gone. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A croissant, a measurement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References
> 
> Shows: https://youtu.be/jWMZhBV4GKo  
> https://youtu.be/DuAHnHLfXz0
> 
> Couture Atiliers:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wqkgo6fV8q8  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ByNRmDF0JGA  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukZuPHIFUH0  
> https://youtu.be/vCOzF0n4-Q4

Pansy watches the girls from behind a curtain, 22 women all placed on platforms of differing heights, drenched in pale violet light. In turn, they stand and take a turn about the room; the fabrics shift and glow around their hips, flowing around them as they walk, and she’s instructed each and every one of them exactly how to place one foot in front of the other, how to turn, how to hold their shoulders, what expression to carry on their face. 

When it’s over, she returns to her place, undresses, drinks an entire bottle of wine by herself, and falls asleep for fourteen hours. 

***

And it’s almost as if Hermione doesn’t see her, which she’s so miffed by she almost considers making another loop around the block and walking by again, but the call for coffee is too strong, and she isn’t sure why she would want to do that anyway, it must only be for the attention which she can get in plenty of other places, but it’s also that Granger is in _her city_ and if she’s going to show up at the café down the street from her aesthetician she might at the very least have the decency to recognize that instead of just showing up here randomly especially when she’d only just had a facial and new eyelash extensions put on, and it was quite rude if Pansy was honest about it, which she almost always was. 

But Granger, of course, was completely focused on her book, which was typical.

There is, for a moment, a flash of nostalgic jealousy, something like the scent of an extinguished candle that rises up suddenly. She remembers how easy it was for Hermione, how soft and kind and smart she was, and still is. Pansy had wanted, for so long, to rip all her hair out, to punch her teeth in, to reach inside her and take those things for herself, to steal whatever spark Granger had and shove it into her own mouth and swallow it whole. How many times had Hermione brushed past them all with effortless cleverness, how many times had she captured all the out-of-reach things the rest of them wanted without, it seemed, worrying at all about what others thought of her? Granger, on a cloud, her perfect skin that she probably only washed with soap and water, her flawless marks, her laughter ringing out across the hall. And how many times had Pansy been left tugging at the ends of her own hair, tearing up pages of meticulous notes, wiping smudges of mascara from under her eyes, scrubbing at her own face like she could never get it clean enough, scrubbing and tearing and surviving on twelve grapes and a handful of almonds a day? How had a girl with nothing pulled it off effortless as breathing, when it felt like nothing Pansy ever did would be enough? 

And how long had it taken her to breath, one single sharp thing from her body, and snuff that candle out? 

At the counter, she pulls her sunglasses off with a pinch of her forefinger and thumb so she can smile at the girl, Emilie, who knows her and gets her un café allongé and an almond croissant, and in a bold move, Pansy asks for two. 

When she sits at Hermione’s table, she crosses one leg over the other, her [shoe](https://www.bergdorfgoodman.com/p/no-21-knotted-satin-slide-mule-prod137480009) dangling gently off her heel. 

“Christ, fuck, are you following me?” 

“I live here, my dear.”

“What the fuck.” 

Hermione almost doesn’t recognize Parkinson, who has her dark hair tied up in a slick top knot with as silver hairpin tucked between the strands. She supposes it’s the sunglasses that give it away; she’s only once seen them off Parkinson’s face, only that first night. But she’s dressed simply — cropped black leggings and a simple white t-shirt, both of which probably cost more than they look. And it takes her a moment to realize the reason Pansy looks different this morning is that she isn’t wearing any makeup — her skin is clean, her lips are a normal shade of pink. It was almost as if she’d expected them to naturally be that red. 

“Try the croissant,” Pansy says simply, and pushes the plate across to her, then tugs on the white tablecloth to flatten it back out, a counteraction. “They’re not my absolute favourite — no, they are, they’re my favourite because I like this place. But perhaps they’re not the best in the city. That’s what I meant to say. But still delightful.” 

“Say ‘delightful’ again,” Hermione says, glaring at her from across the table, her thumb tucked between the pages of her book, waiting for her. 

“ _Delightful_. Say ‘fuck’ again.” 

“What are you doing, Parkinson? Is this some kind of fucking —”

“Ah, hm.” 

“—apology, or something?” 

“No, Granger, it isn’t. You’re in my city, you’re sitting at the café across from where I get my face done, and I thought I’d say hello, as is polite. By societal rules, you ought to have dropped a note that you were here in the first place and offered to meet up, and then we could have done the song and dance about schedules being too busy and avoided this situation altogether. But you didn’t even give me the opportunity to pretend I had other plans on a Saturday morning.” 

Hermione pulls the plate closer anyway, and tugs at the top layer of pastry, knocking loose the almonds and powdered sugar, which she then licks off the tip of her fingers.“I didn’t know you lived here.” 

Pansy rips open a packet of sugar and mixes it into her coffee with a series of quick circles around the edge of the mug, then puts the wooden swizzle stick in her mouth to suck the froth off the tip. And though she doesn’t smoke anymore, she still likes the feeling of something in her mouth, perched between her lips. And even more than that, she likes the way that something looks when she removes it, with her lipstick around its middle. For a brief moment she thinks about taking Hermione’s slender, unpolished finger into her mouth, about leaving her mark. It isn’t anything other than that. 

“Well, it’s nobody’s fault then. Societal rules are forgiven.” 

Hermione pauses, a swath of pastry inches away from her mouth. “We operate in very different societies, you and I. You know that. Your rules don’t apply to me, and mine obviously don’t apply to you.” 

Pansy’s lips tighten around the swizzle stick before she releases it, end wet, to rest on the saucer. Her forefinger slips under the ring, fingernails clicking against porcelain.“I suppose that’s true.” 

“Look, I don’t know why you keep trying to talk to me, but you can’t just sit down and expect me to talk to you like we’re old friends when we’re not. You can’t just buy me fucking…pastries, and the shoes. It doesn’t work like that.” 

“I was just trying to do something nice.” 

“You’re not nice. You were never nice. You were my bully, Parkinson.” 

The words hit exactly as she intended them to: direct, sharp. And Pansy accepts them, she leans back against her chair and lets them drive into her body, shoulders curving just slightly. Her lips rest, one on top of the other, and Hermione can see a breath move in and out of her chest. After a beat, she pulls her sunglasses off. 

“I’m not a child anymore, and neither are you. You’re right, you’re right that I’m not always a nice person. But I am trying to be civil.” Her words are clipped, as if her teeth have snipped off the ends. If she thinks about it, Hermione can see the breeding, the pedigree in the way she shapes her words, in her long vowels and tipped consonants, the staccato of the t’s. She’s breathing steadily, not blinking. It’s impressive. 

“Well, stop it.” Hermione opens her book for a moment, pulls out the red bookmark that had been tucked in as promotion from the shop where she’d purchased it, and shuts the pages. “It’s really annoying.” And with that, Hermione grabs her — not coffee, no, that was definitely a mint tea — and gets up to leave. 

Pansy stands up too. “Let me make you a dress.” 

“What?” 

“Let me make you a dress.” Pansy tugs at the hem of her shirt, adjusting it over her waist. “Something that’ll be just for you.”

“I don’t need a dress. I don’t need those heels. That’s what you don’t understand. The things you are, the way you are…it isn’t practical. You’re in your own little world. Don’t you understand that the rest of us are trying to get on with our lives, like normal? The rest of us have to suffer along?” 

Later, Pansy would lay on her bed and wonder why she had made that offer. Hermione had done everything to show her that she didn’t care. The offerings Pansy was making were going untouched, unwanted, unseen.And maybe it wasn’t worth it to try. Maybe Hermione hated her, and maybe rightfully so. But there was something that kept tugging at her, a loose thread, an unfinished hem. 

“It’s…all I have to offer.” 

*** 

A quill scratches down notes while Pansy takes measurements. She does it by hand, she says, for control — the tape could be charmed, just as needles and thread could be, and theoretically she could have a whole assembly line without seamstresses, she could leave the machines working during the night without her. But it wouldn’t truly be couture if it wasn’t all done by hand.But, she says, the garments would lose their humanity. 

“I’m sure it all sounds like nothingness to you,” she says with a pin between her teeth, “artsy fartsy whatsit and all. But the clothes…there’s a story they tell, a personality they take on. They need to be just as unique as the woman who puts them on. They need to feel like more than just, well. More than just clothes. Lift your arms up.” 

Hermione stands, half undressed and still, on a small pedestal in front of a wall of mirrors, which she avoids making eye contact with. The Atelier sits on the top floor of the building and so is flooded with sunlight through a series of large, rounded windows and a sunroof overhead, and Hermione imagines herself laying flat on one of the long tables and watching the sunset overhead, watching the stars. Along the far wall are metal and dress forms with pieces in varying stages of completion: muslin lining with marks and pins stuck in, elegantly draped skirts that dusted the floors, corset structures with strong boning, soft laces and tulle and silk everywhere she looked. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see an incredible blossom of pink ruffles, and imagines herself getting lost inside of them. 

It is, admittedly, very beautiful. 

Pansy comes closer to her and presses the measuring tape against her side, from her armpit to her waist, then calls out a number. The length of her arm, another number. Around her wrist. Around her chest. Down her legs. From the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. She can feel the cool metal at the end of the tape. She can feel Pansy’s fingers, light and delicate, efficient, only barely touching her skin. 

“How long does one of these take?” 

“Hm? Depends on the piece, I suppose.” Pansy is scribbling something in a notepad. “A couple of days, maybe a week. We had a feathered dress a few seasons back that took about two weeks to complete. We hand-dyed thousands of feathers.” 

“That sounds messy.” 

“It is, it was. But you should have seen it in motion, it was like watching a flock of swans walk down the runway. Absolutely worth it.” 

Hermione nods, and stays quiet for a moment. The sound of Pansy’s note-taking is only just loud enough to hear over the ambient street noises filtering in from below. But it’s quiet here, peaceful. She finds herself enjoying it. How long had it been since she didn’t have to do anything, be responsible for anything beyond existing? How long had it been since no one had asked her something or demanded her attention, even at home? For now, all she needs to do is stand here and let Paris drape around her. 

It’s gentle, the way Pansy says “you can get dressed now,” as if she knows. 

When Hermione returns, back in her easy jeans and blazer, Pansy has made tea for them both and laid out a selection of fabrics for her to look at, “just to get a sense of what works,” she says. Hermione finds a soft lavender, a deep blue, an olive green velvet, and rubs the swatches between her fingers to feel their softness. 

“I’d like you to come back in two weeks for a fitting,” Pansy insists, holding the fabrics up against her cheeks. She takes Hermione’s chin in her hand, a thumb and middle finger just against her jaw, and gently angles her towards the light. “We’ll have to make final adjustments on your body.” It isn’t a question. 

Later, back in her hotel room and alone, Hermione makes travel arrangements. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date, an argument.

Pansy wears a white hat that perches just on the side of her head, angled to block the sun out of her eyes. Her dress is a simple white midi dress with a sheer panel around the waist, and she enjoys the splash of playfulness, of something slightly less than ladylike. 

Pansy Parkinson is, after all, no lady. 

And she found it incredibly annoying when spring in Paris was ruined by constant meetings, even though such was the nature of her work, and she did love being constantly busy. There was something sophisticated about running from appointment to appointment, about the scratching of her assistant’s pen while she conversed with the man who managed her shoe makers.Bernardo was a sweet old Italian man who spoke with his hands, and right now he was waving his sugar spoon around as he told her about his new apprentice, a younger man who kept coming to work hungover, and Pansy is incredibly charmed by him on a normal day. Today she’s feeling anxious, and she can’t exactly pinpoint why. They’re sitting on the garden patio of Laudree near the center of town and everything is so slow, it feels like she’s moving at a million miles an hour and waiting for others to catch up, and Bernardo’s lengthy stories are becoming incredibly irritating. She loves him, but today she wishes she had buzzer to give him a time limit. 

It really is just that she has a million other things on her mind, and she knows her shoes are in good hands. Bernando is an expert, the factory has been in his family for 80 years and they use the most flawless Italian leather. Cobblers are trained for four years instead of the typical two, an intensive program which involves leatherwork and stitching as well as design and couture practices. They only work with top tier designers, and she is lucky to have found him. They trust each other. So this meeting feels entirely unnecessary. 

Pansy sips at her drink, a butterfly pea lemonade with crystal sugars around the rim, her lips wrapped around a metal straw to make sure there isn’t any risk of spilling the tinted liquid on her white dress. In a snap decision, she taps her fingernails on the marble table impatiently. Bernardo is a smart man, they’ve been working together for years, and he knows her. So he finally pulls up the photographs her brought to show her and gets down to business. 

Over pastries, they go through sketches and photographs of elegant heels with glittering 5-inch heels that flared slightly at the base for balance, they debated the angle of the perfect pointed toe, double-checked the shades of black and grey satin that would cover them. He shared progress on chunky boots, her first time doing a platformed base like this, all solid white leather with braided straps up the leg, and their twin heel, domineering 6-inchers with criss-crossed leather straps; both to accompany the edgier look of her ready-to-wear collection coming up in fall. Production has started on the dainty summer sandals, tiny kitten heels wrapped in tulle, made to look like wearable ballet slippers. Pansy was wearing her own personal pair of them today, in a soft white, a color that wouldn’t be available to the general public. A delicate set of initials, PP in her own handwriting, were embossed on the leather sole. 

Alexis has the bill forwarded to the company expense account, and Pansy walks out with her hand resting on Bernardo’s arm. 

“Are there any other meetings today?” 

Alexis is a sweet girl, only a few years younger than Pansy is, with bright round eyes and a smattering of freckles that she hates, but Pansy loves. Sometimes when the light catches her face just right, Pansy makes her stop for a picture, which she then uses when Alexis is feeling down about herself. And Alexis returns the favor by reminding her of her successes, both of them supporting each other in the areas it matters most. Alexis pushes a blonde curl behind her own ear before checking the notes. 

“You don’t have anything until your dinner at 6:30, but you have reminders to buy wine and call your florist, which I can take care of for you if you need the hours.” 

Pansy shakes her head and pushes the bridge of her sunglasses up her nose. “No, I’ve got a lot of excess energy so I’m going to take a walk. I can walk up to Caves du Marais from here, right? Let’s push the call with Luanne for tomorrow morning, first thing.”

And as she walked down the sidewalk, she noticed the way others made room for her, a side effect of perfect posture and the fact that she refused to move for them, a game of chicken she always won. There was something to be said about taking up space, claiming something that others wanted to take from you. It seemed trivial, she supposed, to worry about sidewalk space. Everyone was just going their own way. But it translated to other aspects of life too — the practice of not allowing yourself to be shoved aside, made smaller, bumped into by others who felt they were entitled to more. Pansy had worked so hard at squaring her shoulders and lengthening her spine in just the right way that she no longer knew how to walk any other way. Alexis had once told her it made her look like she was always coming to serve divorce papers, no matter what room she walked into. 

Pansy had told her to make sure that was put on her tombstone. 

** *** **

The restaurant was darker than she would have liked, one of those places that labelled itself as romantic but put no thought whatsoever into what modern romance looked like, and she’d had to ask for a different table in order to see the words on the menu, which wasn’t a great way to start off a date. Were caves romantic now? Who was she to know. 

The woman across from her had short, dark hair and a thick pair of glasses, and Pansy couldn’t blame her for picking this place, she supposed. The chef had just recently received some acclamation so it was difficult to get a table here now, which was why she’d had Alexis call to make the reservation on the company card. Pansy so rarely went out, especially for something that wasn’t related to work at all, so a little flexibility on the accounts didn’t hurt. And she needed it, in a way. She needed to clear her head, needed a distraction, needed to think about something else other than the swath of linen currently wrapped around a dress form in her apartment. 

And Pansy knew she was a hard person to date. She had too many specific tastes, too many peculiarities. Dating required a certain release of control, which she wasn’t ever prepared to do — the last time she’d tried to have a relationship, she’d ended up convincing him to leave his job in search of greener pastures, and then had left him when he hadn’t been able to find anything, feeling he wasn’t ambitious enough. Men were weak, and most people were incredibly boring. There was something to be said for having standards, but she knew her interest in perfectly curating her life could lead to disaster, especially where people close to her were concerned. Pansy’s life was about keeping up with her fast pace, and anyone who couldn’t was left behind. 

It was just that she was so used to doing things by herself now. 

The woman, Hanne, was the senior publicist at a well known gallery in Paris, one that prided itself on hosting the young, up-and-coming artists that would be the next big thing, though she didn’t use exactly that phrasing. She said things like ‘talent scouting’ and ‘unique point-of-view’ and other buzzy industry terms, which was a language Pansy both understood perfectly and abhorred deeply. The truth was that everyone in Pansy’s life spoke like that, to a certain extent, and it made it difficult to know who was being real with her and who was just using key phrases to make it sound like they knew what they were talking about. As she listen to Hanne talk, she wondered how long she would last in a relationship with a person who said things like ‘using my platform’, and her feeling was, probably about three weeks, depending on what the sex was like. 

Really, the question she ought to be asking herself was why she was feeling like everything was so trivial, like there were more important things she had to do. This was the second conversation she’d had today that felt like it couldn’t possibly end fast enough, but she really didn’t have anywhere else to be. She ought to be fully focused on this moment, on this lovely person sitting across from her, refilling her wine glass before she even asked. She ought to be enjoying this. 

Her mind wandered, again, to the dress form in her apartment, the unfinishedness of the thing, a promise she’d made. How long had it been? 

And at the end of the evening she let Hanne lead her back to a small, minimally designed apartment in the 8th, let her touch her thighs and kiss her in the car on the way there, let her unzip her dress and guide it off her shoulders, let her make some off-hand remark about the quality of her lingerie, did she wear this especially for their date, and the only way to urge the evening on was to guide Hanne’s mouth between her thighs and allow herself to relax enough for an unsatisfying orgasm, two fingers inside her and an enthusiasm she couldn’t hope to match bringing her into a soft hum. The few moments it took was enough to distract her, and that was worth it enough, in the end. 

In her own room, she sketches the same face over and over again. 

** *** **

She stands, one leg crossed over the other, letting hot spurts of oil ping against her skin. The chicken she’s making crackles in the dutch oven pan, and in some far-off part of her brain, she reminds herself to finally look up the spell that creates a barrier. She’s burnt herself more times than she can remember, and still has a long scar on her right ring finger from that time she tried to make bread from scratch and forgot to put on an oven mitt. Her mother-in-law is better at these sorts of things, and has offered to help on numerous occasions, but Molly would end up living with them if they allowed her through the front door on the promise of cooking lessons. She pokes at the chicken with tongs, lifts it up slightly to check its progress, then flips it on to the other side. 

If they made more money, they could hire someone to do this. But with both of them on government salaries, that was just a pipe dream. 

Truthfully, she never really thought about money much. Her partner was remarkably good with finances, bless him, after years of living along the poverty line he’d created a budget for them. In the beginning, her parents had offered to help, they always offered to help, knowing that her path wasn’t one of great financial success  —  once it was clear that medical school wasn’t in her future, like they’d originally planned, and she’d deferred post-graduate work after the war in order to help rebuild her community and create a better world. And things were good, she was proud of the work she’d done, she even had an assistant now. But there wasn’t much money in charity work and advocacy, most of the nonprofits she worked with could barely pay a consultancy fee. Her partner worked hard, always taking on extra hours, and both of them had been careful to stick to the budget and put money away for the future, for possible children, for the day she’d feel comfortable going back and perusing a graduate degree like she’d originally planned to. But there was so much work to do, and things got derailed, and she was so, so so very tired. 

She dumps a bag of frozen broccoli into a pot of boiling water, and wonders if there’s something she can take to make time move faster that isn’t entirely illegal. Coffee only does so much, and she does have to be up early for work. 

He comes home and drops his bag and jacket by the front door and goes straight to the shower, his usual routine. By the time he’s re-dressed, dinner is finished, and she gets him a beer. In some alternate universe, this works the other way around — she comes home, and dinner is on the table for her. 

And in all fairness, he is good to her; he cleans up after her, and during the early days when she was staying later more often than not, he did his best to have food on the table. It was just that neither of them could really cook worth a damn, so more often than not she was met with takeaway, and eventually they’d had to break themselves of that habit for the sake of their health. Now, they do their best to trade off, and she cooks when he has to work on the weekends, like today.But it is exhausting. She supposes an aspect of adulthood is always being tired, and even with a completely supportive partner, there’s only so much that can be done. 

The conversation they have over dinner can only be described as _exchanging pleasantries_ , a short bout of describing their days before falling into silence. It isn’t until he gets up to clean his plate that she says, “I’m going to take a holiday. In two weeks.” 

“What?” 

“I’ve scheduled some time abroad. Only five days.”

“I can’t take time off, Hermione. I’ve got that training coming up and I’ve got to save my days off for when the baby comes.” 

“No, I know, I’m not asking you to use your holiday time. I’m taking time off for me.” 

“You’re just going to take a break?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.” 

“But you said abroad?”

“France.” 

“You were just in France.” 

“For work. This is for pleasure.” 

“By yourself?” 

“What’s wrong with that?” She had a feeling this would happen, truthfully, which is why she hadn’t consulted with him before making her plans. No, that wasn’t entirely right. She hadn’t thought to consult with him before making her plans, she’d just done it. She hadn’t thought about it at all. 

But ever since then, it had been nagging at her — the knowledge that they’d have to have this conversation, and she’d have to find a way around explaining why she was really going to Paris. It wasn’t as if she could just say _I’m having a dress made_ and let that be that, she’d have to explain herself. And she wasn’t sure she knew how to do that just yet. 

It was the first time she’d lied to him. 

No, no it wasn’t. It was a new addition to a string of lies that had started that first night, or maybe before that, maybe long before she understood that it was a lie, or maybe there was some part of her she always held back, some barrier she’d put up a long time ago, something she didn’t feel he deserved to know. 

He dropped his utensils into the sink so suddenly, the clang of them startled her. 

“You’re just going to go to a strange country all by yourself, and what…drink wine and eat French food and….leave me here?” 

“It’s only five days, babe. You can do five days on your own.” 

“You didn’t even think to invite me, Hermione. You’re just springing this on me with no notice.” 

“I’m giving you plenty of notice, I’m not leaving for another two weeks. We’ll stock up on groceries. You’ll be fine.” 

“That’s not even…I can’t believe you’re just going to up and leave me like that to wander around a foreign country by yourself with no supervision and no —“ 

“I’m sorry, do you think I need supervision? You want to be my fucking chaperone?” 

“No no, shit, that’s not what I meant.”

“I think that’s exactly what you meant.” She pushes her chair back from the table then, and it sounds against the wood floor.

“I know you don’t need supervision, I just —“ 

“What exactly are you upset about here?” 

“Stop cutting me off, will you?”

“Get to your point then.” 

“You never tell me anything anymore! You’re just staying late and going places and I’m here waiting at home for you, we barely even—“

“Oh, please.” 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

“It may surprise you, but this actually isn’t about you at all.” 

He’s quiet after that, and he cleans the pan without question, making quick work of it. They spend the next few hours in silence, save the niceties of asking each other to refill a glass of water when the other gets up, or share the toothpaste. And when they’re in bed finally, he puts his arm around her waist like it’s some kind of apology, and she lets him. 

** *** **

On Thursday she gets a note delivered to her desk, care of the Ministry. The stationary is thick and satisfying under her fingers. 

_ Going to be in LDN for a shoot this weekend & need some shots for the project.  _

_ Stop by after 6?  _

_ xx P _

She doesn’t bother to send a reply, but has her assistant mark it on her calendar. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a homecoming, a homegoing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some visual references for the Parkinson House:  
> [one](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/6a/ee/0a/6aee0ab3db5a7a1ffeeca2e34a6ba2a3.jpg)  
> [two](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/c9/ee/88/c9ee88ee41f3efcd2bcd418b30af7bbc.jpg)  
> [three](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/11/85/ed/1185ed0fdc98160af222d87c6eef0128.jpg)

She does hate to travel, and for someone who does it so often, she was awful at it. One would think she’d be well practiced by now, she’d pack with efficiency, and take something to counteract the motion sickness she felt when the ground was snatched from underneath her. But as it was, the anxiety she felt leading up to a trip always caused procrastination, so she was left stuffing things into her luggage the morning before she was set to leave, frantic and worrying herself sick. It was 4 in the morning. 

And the issue was half about the motion of it; she’d always hated feeling thrown and out of control. But. 

The thing was, she didn’t spend enough time in London anymore, and for good reason. She made business trips sometimes, and that was fine, they’d set up travel plans and a hotel room near the office and she’d pop right over and then back again once things were finished, or she sent delegates in her place. Most of her partners were understanding of this — her team explained that it made her sick, she was busy, she only had a little bit of time, whatever excuse fit the bill. And so she’d successfully avoided staying overnight in England for several years now.

Paris is home. Paris is hers. 

But she hadn’t been able to avoid this. A once in a lifetime opportunity, a chance to bring the PARK brand into the spotlight for good. It was a small operation, after all, privately funded. She’d been careful about making alignments that were in her best interest instead of building towards popularity, choosing to work with a select amount of private clientele, to show only two collections a year instead of 6, being very careful about publicity efforts. This was a game of longevity, it was about building something that would last. It was a legacy, something she’d crafted with her own two hands. 

But when the most well-respected fashion magazine called and requested a week with her for extended profile, she couldn’t say no. 

Sun barely awake, Pansy shuffles around her apartment in a pair of quilted slippers and leggings, frantically grabbing things she might need with absolutely no plan at all — clothes and shoes for the week, sort of, with the thought that she could always buy something she was missing, copies of her schedule and notes, her hair and skincare products, a selection of jewelry for the days. The studio was sending over wardrobe for the photos, directly to the studio, and all of that had been carefully planned ahead of time alongside Catalina, her creative director. Pansy checks the time. Shit. She is dreading it. She perches her sunglasses on her nose, clutches her bag against her chest. 

When she steps through, it is sunlight that hits her first, a blaring bright light from floor-to-ceiling windows that makes her flinch. Of course. She hasn’t yet replaced the curtains. 

And for what it was worth, her mother had had impeccable taste. The sprawling home in Kent was modern in styling, with warm wood floors and a palette of whites and grays and pops of copper accents, influenced by the Scandinavian minimalist designers. The living room rug had been hand-woven and brought in from Korea, one of the few things from home her father had allowed in the house and only because the style had been popular at the time. Her mother had compromised, but otherwise the design of the house was entirely her — large windows, well-placed imported plants for a splash of green, a long glass coffee table in the center of the room with a steel sculpture perched atop it. They’d had to take the windows out in order to get it inside the house.

Pansy threw her bag over an armchair a little too hard and watched it tumble to the floor, kicked her slippers off by the door. 

She always thinks she should have sold it right after school, once she’d secured her first flat in Paris and decided to get out. For the life of her, she didn’t understand what hold this place had on her, over her, around her. She’s gone over it with her therapist in several sessions, who always suggested she ought to visit again, and she’d refused each time. There were practical reasons to keep it. It was a large piece of property, a great location, a good investment to have in her name. Important things were still sent there, sometimes, from the government. There was an extensive wine cellar underneath that she might still want access to, and all of the priceless art her mother had collected over the years, she had nowhere else to put those things and she couldn’t dream of putting it in storage. There was an elf, still, though she was only contracted to come and clean the house twice a week now instead of living there full time. Her mother’s clothes were still in the wardrobe. Her father’s papers, she might need for record keeping. Her old school things. 

And there is something here that she needs. 

But the truth was simple: she was the sole heir. Homes like that had magic of their own, it belonged to her in a way she’d never be able to explain. She could feel it soften around her. The temperature in the room rose a few degrees. 

There is something she could do about those windows, probably. But she doesn’t. Let the light in. 

Pansy shuffles off towards the kitchen, re-pinning her bangs back away from her face. There’s no food of course, but she’s still slightly dizzy from the travel and there’s filtered lemon water, always, something her mother had set up years ago that they’d never quite figured out how to stop. She makes a mental note to write to the elf and request groceries for the week. 

A whole week. Goddamnit. 

At least it’s quieter here now. 

*******

She’s on her third cup of coffee of the day, which she knows means she won’t sleep well tonight, but that’s the last of her problems. The papers on her desk keep piling up, memos from her coworkers that need her attention, but she can’t for the life of her figure out how to care about them. There’s a project they’ve been working on, a case she’s been monitoring for years that is finally coming to fruition, and they’ve been slaving away doing fact-checking and cross referencing from multiple sources. There are first-hand accounts that need to be authenticated, references from years ago that are incomplete. And it’s the type of work she does love to dig into. She loves the details, loves the work of it, like solving a complicated puzzle with lots of little pieces that only just barely fit together. And she knows that when she finally emerges out of this, she’ll feel clear and victorious. But right now, she just can’t focus, like her eyes and brain have disconnected from each other. She knows the words on the page, but her brain won’t process what they mean. 

She does love her job, she loves these people and she loves the mission. She’s worked hard to get here, and is on her way to a promotion soon, if she wants one. That’s always been her way. Her name is synonymous with success. 

And sometimes it’s exhausting. 

In an effort to wake herself up, she pushes herself away from her desk and switches from her office slippers into the simple black flats she wears almost daily to take a walk around the office. 

Her office is small and stuffed with books and files, and outside of it there is a team of five other people crowded around a large round table, all of them doing the work that she was likely supposed to be spearheading, unless they were really good at faking it. Her direct reports were a good team, driven and idealist, just like she’d been when she was young. Somewhere over the years she’d lost a bit of that, had it slowly drained like a leaking tap. The losses hit hard. The successes felt dulled by her exhaustion. She began to see the repetitiousness of bureaucracy and she didn’t know how to find the sparkle again. 

She curls her hand around her coffee mug, notices the brown stains around the rim. 

“I’m going to step out for lunch, alright? Can you hold down the fort?” She directs her gaze to Molly and Oliver, lovingly dubbed the Power Couple even though they aren’t a couple at all. They’ve been with her for years. They nod. “Great, I’ll be back in an hour.” 

Her mother’s office is across town. 

Actually, technically, her mother’s office is in Oxford, where she grew up. But the practice has another office in the city and her mother meets with patients there twice a month. Her father once did as well, but retired recently and was now entirely focused on cultivating a small grove of lemon trees in their yard. God, how long had it been since she’d been home? 

Hermione carries coffees, a bag with sandwiches and two chocolate croissants (somewhere, a voice is correcting her: pain au chocolat, it isn’t hard dear, and you’re too smart for that) and has a brief chat with the receptionist while Alice Granger’s last appointment finishes up. And when she sees her daughter, her entire face lights up. Hermione finds her cheek mashed against her mother’s ear as they embrace. 

“My beautiful girl! What’s brought you here on such a nice day?” 

“Just missed my mum. I brought a ham & cheese for you,” she offers, holding the bag up. Alice ushers her into the private office space near the back of the practice. 

Alice tells Hermione about the lemon trees, and that they’ve adopted a dog, a golden retriever, which Ben Granger was originally resistant to, but has now become inseparable from. And they’re reading a new book together, hosting a little two-person book club on the weekends, which she thinks has brought them closer together. 

“When we were both working, we tried to find time to do fun things, but sometimes work got in the way. And then you came along, and we did things for you — which we loved doing, of course. Do you remember that time we took you to Disneyland, in Paris? You were so little, and I was so scared to lose you in the crowd. But seeing you laugh like that was always worth it.” Alice reaches out and pats Hermione on the arm, a little gesture she does from time to time when they’re together. Hermione asked her about it once, and remembers her mother saying I just like having you next to me, butterfly. 

“Hey mum?” she says, stopping her mother from launching into another nostalgia story. Her mother sits across from her in an ergonomic office chair, her eyes wide and warm. She always thinks she takes after her father more in terms of her mannerisms and personality, but she is undeniably her mother’s child. “You and dad still like each other, after all this time?” 

Her mother smiles as if she understands. “We still like each other. It isn’t always easy, you know how he sulks sometimes. When you were little, I mean, a baby…we used to get into big fights about how to raise you. But we’ve always been partners. And he makes me laugh. He’s got these little fuzzy slippers he wears around the house now, and he does this little shuffle along in the slippers…” Her mother hunches her back slightly and scoots her chair a few feet forward, imitating the movement done at home. “It’s ridiculous, but he does it on purpose now because it makes me smile.”

Hermione smiles too, a soft thing that’s gone in a flash, because she can imagine her father enjoying that very much. It’s a moment before her mother asks, “Is everything alright at home, dear?” 

“Oh, um…yeah, of course.” 

“Hermione, you’re so clever, but you’ve always been a terrible liar.” 

“I don’t know. I just feel like every day is the same thing over and over again now. Our youths were so…active. And it wasn’t good, none of that was good. But now it’s just wake up, eat, go to work, come home, eat, sleep, wake up, repeat. And sometimes…I’m not sure what’s worse. I’m so bored sometimes, mum.” 

Her mother stays silent, listening; both of them in the same position — one leg crossed over the other, tense. 

After a minute: “I know that’s horrible to say.” 

“Is it honest?” 

She likes the way her mother always asks, _is it honest_ , rather than _is it true_. Her mother, in all her infinite kindness, has always known the difference, and allowed Hermione to be her version of honest, as best she could be. It was the way she learned how to take time to herself, to become self-actualized and articulate with her emotions, thinking through every possible version of her thoughts before voicing the one that felt the most honest. It made being open with her parents much easier as a child. Now, she wasn’t as sure. Now, she faltered. 

For a moment she thought about the day she had to fly to Australia, the feeling of stepping off a plane, into a complete unknown. She was so good, usually, at preparing — but nothing could have prepared her for turning parents into strangers, then strangers into parents again. They’d spent three days in a hotel room together while she explained everything in detail. And during those nights she’d slept in-between them, like a child suffering from a nightmare. She had been a child suffering from a nightmare. 

“It’s honest. The war is just with my own brain now, I think.” 

“Have you thought about going back to that therapist?” 

Hermione rolls her eyes. “She was a crackpot, mum. She’d only want to give me lavender essential oil and breathing techniques. Either that or they’d put me on such a cocktail of drugs that I wouldn’t be able to think straight. I can’t do it.” 

Her mother seems unconvinced, but doesn’t say anything about it, simply shifts slightly in her chair, crossing the opposite leg over the other thigh. “Have you talked to him about it?” 

Hermione shakes her head. “We had a fight.” It was honest, but not true. She knows that she’s felt like this for longer than a night or two. She knows she doesn’t know how to say what she really means. She knows she’s a mess that can’t be fixed. She knows he’ll leave her. She knows, she knows. 

“What was the fight about?” 

“I, uh…booked a holiday, for myself. Just me.” 

“Well. Maybe that’s just what you need.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a camera, several drinks.

The lift doors open to the large, open top floor of a building near Covent Garden, a space that Hermione assumes was originally meant to be a single flat — there’s a small kitchen space that seems to be used mostly for storage of personal items, including a small mountain of jackets and handbags, and a few separate rooms off to the side that hold large lighting fixtures and set props. She can see that there were some walls knocked out to make way for what is mostly a blank canvas of dark wood floors and white walls, with large ornate windows. It reminds her slightly of the atelier in Paris, except here, Pansy looks out of place. 

It is only her, singular, at the center of the room. She sits in a simple wooden chair, draped in an elegant black organza gown that waterfalls over her bent knees. A cascade of strung pearls falls down her back in braids and twists, and Hermione watches as she moves ever so slightly: a rolling back of her shoulder, a tilt of her chin, a slight hunch of her back, a turning out of her ankle. Pansy poses so delicately it’s almost like nothing is happening at all until it does, soft infinitesimal movements towards perfection. The camera clicks over and over again, the photographer asking for a little more to the left, a little towards the window, a little, a little…and then it happens. The evening light falls through the windows and catches the angles of her face, igniting a shimmer along her cheekbones. Her eyelashes flutter ever so slightly shut, and when she breathes out, it’s like watching the reflective surface of a calm, clear lake. The whole room stills, the camera clicks one last time. And that’s a wrap. 

Hermione doesn’t understand what’s she’s looking at, not really. She doesn’t understand the intricacies of the posing, the dance of subject and lens. She doesn’t understand the purpose of all of this. All she knows is that she’s seen something that feels delicate; a single perfect pearl of a moment. 

She waits patiently for Pansy to change out of that dress (and watches it go back into a garment bag and immediately out the door, presumably to be cleaned or stored away), and it isn’t until she emerges again that Hermione realizes she isn’t actually wearing that much makeup — Pansy’s face just…looks like that. Which is a thought she files away to be angry about later. 

Pansy doesn’t greet her so much as assumes she’s paying attention, which she is, and so when she catches the other woman’s eye across the room, she comes to join her. Pansy fits a lens on the body of a camera, wipes the lens with a soft cloth, and fiddles with the settings before taking a few test shots of their feet. Hermione tilts back on her heels, rocks forward again onto her toes.

“Stand by the window, before the light fades.” 

How she is supposed to follow the moment from earlier she has no idea, but Hermione does as she is told, and stands by the window feeling incredibly awkward. She holds her hands clasped in front of her, and after a minute, remembers to roll her shoulders back and lengthen her spine. She does not look. 

“Can you turn towards me a little?”

Hermione shifts her feet slightly, twists her hips to face forward, but keeps her eyes firmly along the line that leads out of the large windows. From here, she can see out over the market and the familiar structures around it, streets she’s walked a million times, and beyond to the river. And she’s fine there, she’s really fine and not thinking about much at all, really not thinking about how late it’s getting or what’s waiting for her at home or the clicking of the camera lens or the unsettling frequency of being watched or who she is being watched by, honestly she’s enjoying the soft marigold of the sun setting over her city, it really is very pretty from up here. She’s fine until she feels a gentle hand on her arm. 

“Almost done, don’t worry.”

Pansy is gentle as she guides her, much the same as she had when they were alone together in her atelier back in Paris, just soft touches against her elbow, her hip, to shift her from something stiff and anxious into something more natural, a way she’d stand if no one else was watching. Two fingers under her chin raise her gaze towards confidence. There are three more snaps of a camera, closer than she’d like, and then it’s over. 

It’s a moment, a moment spent watching Pansy detach the camera lens and pack it away in a leather bag, before she speaks up: “Can I ask what these are for?”

Pansy doesn’t look up. “Your measurements only tell me so much. I need to be able to coordinate with your colouring, make sure I’m thinking about how you might style your hair. That sort of thing.” 

“My hair?” 

“You’ve always kept it natural, haven’t you?” 

“We used to braid it when I was little, but I get restless. I could never sit for long enough.” She remembers the pulling at her scalp, the hours spent in a chair, both her and her mother frustrated. In the end they’d decided it wasn’t worth it. And she took pride in her natural curls, despite comments from others. It was, now, something of a protest, after an incident early on in her career. Something about professionalism. Something about being called untamed. Something, something, something she easily forgot. 

Pansy nods, remembering faintly, something something something, long ago. Something she’d rather forget. 

“Where do you go, now?” Hermione asks, and almost immediately regrets it. Too bold, perhaps, too friendly. They don’t know each other like that. They don’t want to know each other like that. This is, like most relationships in her life now, purely transactional. 

Pansy is quiet for a moment as she packs away her camera and slips on a black leather jacket. It is, perhaps, the most dressed down Hermione has ever seen her, though she is still unfairly statuesque, a consequence of the sleek black boots. 

She answers, simply: “You look like you could use a drink.” 

** *** **

Down the road there is a small bar with shelves lined with wine bottles, and she doesn’t get the chance to inspect them all before they’re seated at a small table near the kitchens, and Pansy thinks to herself that this is the second date she’s been on this week, but it won’t end the same way the other did, and that’s for the best. She orders them a bottle, which Hermione seems to appreciate, and a charcuterie board that is placed between them. She watches as Hermione reaches to spread brie on a crostini, as she dabs honey on top. “I don’t go out a lot,” she explains, “I don’t have time anymore.” 

“Mm, me neither. He doesn’t take you out?” Pansy’s fingers lay against the stem of the glass, easy and delicate.

“Well, sometimes, for an anniversary or something. We went out a couple of weeks ago because he got into this special training program. But it’s not anything really nice, you know? Not like this. There’s a place up the road from us that we always go to.” 

Pansy doesn’t say what she’s thinking, which is that she worries a little about Hermione’s happiness, about complacency, about the trappings of heterosexual relationships under the patriarchy, exacerbated by this relationship with a mediocre white man. But that’s mean, maybe. She doesn’t know how mediocre he is anymore, really. She only knows that Hermione drinks her wine like it’s water. Instead, she says, “it must be nice to have something so reliable.” 

“Yeah,” Hermione says, her brows pulling together for a moment, “it is. Reliable is a good word for it.” 

Pansy presses her lips together, then runs one fingernail under her bottom lip to sharpen the line of her lipstick, no doubt softened now by the rim of her wine glass. She has left kisses like this all over several major cities. “I might be a little jealous of that,” she lies. 

“You don’t see anyone? What about, um…you were seeing someone, at school?” 

Pansy blinks once, then shakes her head. There’s something there she doesn’t want to acknowledge, a name she doesn’t want to say. In another world, maybe, they’d both be able to say his name without the feeling of being hit by canon fire, she’d be able to meet Hermione’s eyes without wanting to die. But this door has been pushed open now, and she supposes there’s no way to go but through it. “Oh, fuck, that was years ago. We were babies.” 

“You don’t talk to him?” 

“No one does.”

Hermione doesn’t ask, but busies herself with slicing a block of comté. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Yes, we do.” Pansy’s nail taps against the glass stem. “You know you want to.” 

“Yeah, I want to. But I’m not gonna be an asshole about it.” 

“It wasn’t really ever like that, with him. Well, it was, but we were kids. We didn’t know what it was supposed to be like, you know? When you’re that young, it’s like…the performance of a relationship, mostly. And for us — for me, I think, especially — it was a status thing. You know how things were. His parents never liked me, so we split.” 

“His parents made him end it?” 

“Sort of. It was pretty mutual. I used to go over there for dinner and his father would glare at me across the table and say shit about how us young people did things so differently these days, his generation wouldn’t mix like we did…” 

“He didn’t!” 

“Oh yeah, right to my face.” 

“Jesus, I thought it would be different considering, you’re…” 

“I know. We always thought it wouldn’t matter. But…look, I know I didn’t get it the same way you did. And things like money and my father’s standing with the ministry always helped. And that was the whole reason he married my mother, you know? It was all about, um, raising his platform or whatever, and transcending those boundaries. But sometimes they just can’t look past…” Pansy rolls her eyes and gestures to her face. 

“Fuck. I’m so surprised by that.” 

“Fuck it, you know? Like I was going to sit there and take that from a man who wears his hair in a ponytail like it’s the 1700s.” 

For the first time in all their exchanges, Hermione laughs. Oh, _oh_. Pansy presses her lips together. 

“Anyway, we were both faking it, turns out. I don’t like men that much, I was forcing it. And he…well. We figured it out later on.” 

“Oh…” Hermione holds her wine glass with both hands. “I didn’t know.” 

Pansy shrugs and pops an olive into her mouth. “I don’t think it matters that much.” 

“It doesn’t.” 

“Anyway. They’re all…gone now.” And she hadn’t heard a word in years, not since the rumors they’d crossed over the Alps. Maybe that was for the best. 

They’re quiet for a moment, and Pansy tries not to think about how much wine Hermione has had, or why she needs it. She tries not to think about where she has to sleep after this. She tries not to think about where Hermione has to sleep, either. 

Hermione leans back against her chair. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask. You always wear the same shade of red lipstick?” 

Pansy smiles, grateful for the safety net Hermione has offered her. “Yeah, I found the one that works and bought five cases, so I’m set for life.” 

“That….you might actually be a genius.” 

“I have my moments.” 

The moments after are softer, like a candle has been blown out and they’re left only with the smoky afterness, the smell of bluebells after the rain. And Hermione is drunk, she giggles when she’s drunk and crinkles her nose, and Pansy notices, and Pansy spreads brie on crostini for her, and listens to her talk about her work, and watches as she lights up when she explains the importance of what they do and all the complicated new projects she’s working on. And at the end of the night, Pansy calls a car to take her home, and rides with her all the way into Croyden to make sure she gets through the front door alright.

And it’s a long way back to Kent, and she can’t explain why she feels so cold. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a breakfast, a history

He’s already asleep when she gets home, and she slides into bed next to him, her hair tied up in silk. His body is warm, and he stirs when she presses herself against his side, they turn toward each other instinctively, bodies in tune from years of sleeping side by side. In the morning, she’ll make some excuse and kiss the soft space below his ear, and he’ll pull her on top of him like he always does, and it’ll be the same, but it’ll be something, something they can hold on to, something she knows is good. 

The thing that’s twisting inside of her goes ignored for now, appeased by hangover pancakes and fresh strawberries picked up on his way home, and though she knows one day she’ll have to wiggle out from the soft layer of lies she’s found herself under, for now she remembers what it was like to fall in love as children and grow together. She remembers the way it felt when he finally looked at her the way she’d longed for, the first kiss and all the ones after, their young mouths figuring out how to come together, how to make each other feel good, how to touch. She remembered the elation she’d found at feeling safe, finally; at finding a place where she didn’t always have to be strong and brave. 

She doesn’t think about the years after, the first three she’d spent financially supporting him. She doesn’t think of the pressure put on them by both their families, the constant ache in her back, the long hours she worked and then he began to work as retribution, the way she’d stopped bothering to communicate what felt good in bed because she was too tired and instead endured his fumblings, the refrigerator packed with leftover takeaway, the way being a person just took so much effort some days, the way her boss had asked her if she was okay because she’d worn her hair in the same way for a whole month straight (and the hurt of having hercalled ‘untamed’, and the way her complaints went ignored by HR, and the way he would never really understand as much as he tried, and that day she stood in front of the mirror and thought about shaving it all off, and how her mother had been the only one capable of calming her down, and how like a child she felt as her mum puled at her scalp and did her braids, and how she’d wept both for giving in to their respectability politics and for still needing her mother at twenty-five).

She watches him flip pancakes in her blue gingham apron, and adores the way his sleepy hair flops against his forehead. 

It is love, still, isn’t it? It’s love, to feel comfortable and settled? It’s love, even if you no longer feel that same pang in your chest because you’re so used to each other now? It’s love, even when you feel messy, even when you only get a couple of hours together at night and on weekends? Isn’t it love, just to come home to someone at the end of the day? 

“Hey, babe?” Her fork nudges a strawberry into the ooze of maple syrup left on her plate. “Remember that trip to Paris I told you about?” 

“I…was trying not to, but yes.” 

“I know you said you didn’t have time to take off, but what if you did a sneaky sick day or two? Or I could set up something so you could pop over after work?” 

“Oh, wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you needed time for yourself?” 

“I just…I’m not sure I can be away from you for that long,” she admits, though she isn’t sure it’s entirely accurate. Something like that. Something close to that. 

“I start that new training program soon…” 

“Yeah yeah, of course. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” She waves a hand, feigning nonchalance. 

“I’ll take a look at the schedule. I promise.” 

** *** **

She walks past the door on her way down to the kitchen in the morning. 

Well-rested isn’t exactly the phrase she’d use after sleeping in her childhood bedroom for the first time since since the war. She’s fairly sure the only reason she slept at all was because she’d had some alcohol and cheese in her system, and even then it was only a few hours. It was close to six in the morning, and she felt so mixed up that she’d almost forgotten where she was, and had knocked an elbow into the bookshelf near the door on her way to the loo. She feels more like her body is filled with sand, and if it weren’t for the fact that she didn’t want anyone to know that she was here, she would have gone out for a run. 

She passes by again when she realizes she’s left her face spray upstairs and it’s dry in this house now, because no one’s lived here in years and whatever humidity and air purification spells they’d had in place had run their course, and she has to go into her father’s office to find the notes he’d made about all of that and ends up going through all of the security measures as well. She isn’t even sure she can manage this work by herself, and considers reaching out to a much more capable witch. 

(But no, she made the last overture, the ball was in another court, waiting.)

She passes by a few more times, ignoring the door’s presence, the way it seems to glare at her, the way the hallway is just a little bit darker in the section between the stairs and her room at the end of the hall. The house is sizable but isn’t like the Manor, with individual wings for each of them. No, her parents preferred to have her close, where they could keep an eye on her, where they could hear her shuffling about in her room. She got away with nothing in this house. 

Oh, there had been so many nights of crying in her closet, hoping the fabric around her would muffle the sounds, of having nowhere to hide from her mother’s sharp words, of wanting to drown herself in the bathtub after being told it was a shame she’d taken after her father so much. And there had been one night, one single lonely night, when she’d come back through the window at 4 in the morning and found her windows permanently charmed shut the next day. 

She is procrastinating. 

She knows where everything is, of course. And the photographer would be in her Paris apartment tomorrow morning ready to go, so she is running out of time. But she finds herself unable to push that door open.

Whatever.

There’s another door, but it’s in her own room and to her own damn closet and it slides easily to the side. There’s still plenty in here; she’d left so much of herself behind, shedding an old life like a skin, easily, nothing to it. She didn’t even remember packing that night — in a haze she’d grabbed a few solid outfits and the most expensive pair of shoes she owned in case she ended up having to sell them, and once the decision to go had been made, she was gone. Everything she was now, everything she had built herself into, had been made by her own two hands. She had stitched every glimmering bead into place. 

She brushes past her old life — dresses she’d been forced to wear for societal occasions, the horrendous pink thing she’d wore to the ball during their fifth year. Her fingers brushed past her old school uniform jumper, touching the place where it was frayed at the collar — a necklace had gotten caught in the fabric and yanked free by the boy’s slim fingers. There were things in here that made her long for how skinny she’d been at sixteen, before her metabolism had slowed down and she’d had to be careful about what she ate. There were things in here that she wanted to pull out and burn for the memories attached to them. But they weren’t what she needed.

It was at the back, tucked away for a future occasion she’d never gotten to have. 

The hanbok her father had brought back to England for her after a business trip was tucked away in a garment bag to protect the silk, and when she pulled it out, she thought for a moment that it still smelled like his cologne, a soft citrus. 

With a deep teal jeogori and full violet chima, it would be the most color she’d worn in almost twenty years. 

Her mother would have hated it. 

And it was that thought that fueled her at three in the morning when she had finally worked up the strength to push the door open, because fuck Patricia Ainsworth Parkinson, that bitch, who had always continued to use her maiden name as if to say ‘I’m not really with them’, who had sat her in front of the mirror so many times and told her to smile, who had put so much emphasis on being English, who had chastised her father for speaking Korean in public, lest others think they were poor and uneducated. Fuck that bitch, and all her Nationalist bullshit. 

Her mother’s wardrobe was, with the exception of the ballroom and the wine cellar for obvious reasons, the largest room in the house. During her life, she’d had a personal elf just to attend to her clothes, who kept everything clean and organized, noting every piece that came in — there was a large catalogue resting on the vanity that noted the date of purchase, the designer, and the cost. Pansy had once assumed this was to keep track in case a piece went missing. Now, she knew it was for insurance purposes — the items in this room are worth hundreds of millions. Now, perhaps even more, as they’d be considered vintage. Pre-war. Of another era. 

But it isn’t the clothes she’d interested in. 

There’s a door at the right of the vanity that opens with a delicate tap of her wand, and from the opening slides forth drawer after drawerafter well-lit drawer of jewelry. Some of the more expensive, one-of-a-kind pieces are kept under glass, others rest on velvet pillows. Necklaces hang on gold hooks, and there are six drawers of just sunglasses. She recognizes a few key items — the gold and ruby leopard brooch her mother wore to the minister’s re-election campaign gala the year before she’d started school; the diamond tennis bracelet Pansy had saved up to get her for Christmas one year, that she’d never worn. 

Her own closet was extensive, but never like this. Her mother was a maximalist. In her pettiness, Pansy thought it gaudy and performative. 

In the center of the jewelry closet is a glass box with silver filigree fixtures. Inside rests a pair of large baroque pearl earrings. She has many memories of her mother in these, but only one that sticks out clearly in her mind: her grandmother’s funeral when she was eight. These earrings had been passed down for generations, worn by the Ainsworth women for weddings, funerals, balls, and any moment in their lives that they deemed worthy of heirloom pearls. There had been many times when she had asked her mother if she could borrow them, only to be denied. _Upon my deathbed_ , Patricia had promised, _you can wear them at my funeral_. 

Well, there hadn’t ever been a funeral. They hadn’t ever found a body. 

She wore the pearls with her hanbok, audacious and proud. 

The magazine cover read:

_ THE RECLAMATION OF PANSY PARK _


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cover story

**Flâneuse Magazine, Summer**

> **THE HIGH ROAD**
> 
> _Designer Pansy Park on reclaiming her identity—and glamour—after the war_
> 
> Though she no longer lives full time in London, Pansy Park knows her way around town. We meet at the chic Ham Yard Hotel in Soho and immediately round the corner for a coffee, though she isn’t a heavy coffee drinker. “It’s usually one cup in the morning, and then I switch to a tea. Leading up to a show it’s much different, of course — but then I’ll sleep for a whole day after. I prefer not to have such a crash if I’m working.” And indeed, about two hours later, she orders a lavender matcha latte. She wears a pink and lavender checked midi-skirt with a cropped white halter top, exposing a floral tattoo on her left shoulder. The silver ankle boots are from her upcoming fall collection.
> 
> Park moved full time to Paris at nineteen, a move she says she doesn’t regret “a bit”, though she recognizes her privilege in being able to do so. “I’m not entirely without guilt,” she says, her fingernails tapping against the ceramic coffee mug. “I escaped when so many had to stay and rebuild. I’m not going to sit here and say that rebuilding my life was equivalent to that. At the time, I didn’t think I had any other options. There was a moment when I considered going all the way to New York.” But Paris turned out to be just the right thing. Park was able to discover a new passion with relative anonymity. Part of her enjoyed the opportunity to be someone else. “It was like a creative project, at first. I got to think up a whole new story for myself. But as time went on, I realized just how much un-learning I had to do. I realized I was rewriting parts of my past that I had been traumatized by.”
> 
> Through all of that, she began working on her first collection, which debuted to a small audience at Paris. Much of that first show was designed from her small apartment. “I had a small work table for sewing, and then I’d hang finished garments up on the shower bar. Every inch of that place was dedicated to crafting garments. “I put bolts of fabric in the cupboards and on top of the fridge when I ran out of space under the bed.” Though it wasn’t until her third Parisian show that PARK garnered noticed from the fashion world at large, she knows how important those first few years were. “I was still learning what my signature was. Knowing that there were no expectations, no one waiting for me to produce, meant that I could take the time to build something I was really proud of.”
> 
> And she has every reason to be proud. The SEOUL FOREST collection (or PARK III, as she refers to it) gained attention from major fashion publications (including this one) and influencers alike. What broke the mold was the fusion of traditional Korean styles with modern details and fabrics. “I had been looking at photos from my childhood. My father used to take me on trips to South Korea for work—I don’t remember anything about them, I was so young. Looking at those photos was almost like looking at an entirely different person. Suddenly I was imagining who I would have been if I had grown up in Seoul instead of Kent. What would my life have been like if my father hadn’t anglicized his name, if we hadn’t been concerned about proximity to whiteness and the privilege that came with that? What if there hadn’t been any shame around where we came from?”The new perspective changed the way she thought about her art. “I had cracked open a wound I hadn’t been aware of. Suddenly I was unpacking all of this cultural baggage through the clothes I was making.”
> 
> Looks from SEOUL FOREST were in high demand, with more requests than she could fulfill on her own. “I hated that, honestly. It was awful to say no to people because I didn’t have the time to complete everything. I hated having to create a waiting list. I know there’s a lot of allure about having a select clientele, but it felt terrible at the time. Suddenly this big dream was coming true, and I couldn’t see it through all the way. It was still just me sewing everything in my apartment, for the most part. It was important to me that I did it all myself. It had to be me.” Though she’d hired an assistant earlier in the year, Park was still creating garments entirely by hand while operating a booming business. It was out of necessity that she bought the entire top floor of the building where she already lived and turned it into what is now Atelier Park, an operation with twenty full-time seamstresses. It’s still a relatively small operation by comparison to other couture houses, and Park still does a lot of the sewing herself. “At the end of the day, I do enjoy it. It’s meditative for me.”
> 
> Over the next five years, Park’s work continued to gain attention and critical praise, even earning her a WITCH WEEKLY STYLE ICON OF THE YEAR award, alongside two MODE MAGIQUE best collection awards (for her HYDE PARK and GOTHIC BOTANICAL collections, respectively), but she continued to struggle with her personal identity. “I was pushing out three collections a year and still didn’t feel like I knew who I was. I was working alongside designers I’d admired since childhood, and I still felt like I was drowning. The imposter syndrome was overwhelming.” Park ended up taking a year off, which at the time she labeled as research. “I went to therapy, I spent a lot of time journaling and meditating. I spent three months in Seoul with my grandparents. I was still sketching and designing, but I didn’t touch any of the actual garment production so I could focus on who I wanted to be—not only as a designer, but a person. I was struggling with my identity as a British-born person, as a queer woman, as part of the diaspora. I couldn’t figure out how to, for lack of a better phrase, stitch it all together.” Park admits to struggling with the expectations that came alongside the recognition she was receiving. 
> 
> At this point in our conversation, we have moved from the public coffee shop in Soho to an open loft space overlooking Covent Garden. Park is nursing her third matcha latte, vibrant red lipstick still perfectly in place. “There was so much I hadn’t ever questioned in my youth, and I think it hit me pretty hard. I was suddenly looking back at moments and thinking, ‘oh, I was told all of these things—about the way I look, about how clever I was, about how British I was—because of racism. I always thought there was something wrong with me. I really internalized all of that, and I ended up…over-compensating, I think, for how hurt I was. I was suffering, I didn’t know how to deal with it, so a lot of people around me suffered as well. It took me a long time to come to terms with all of that. I think it held me back. It’s been a real process.”
> 
> When she came back from her sabbatical, she felt more ready than ever to put herself out on a public stage. Her newfound confidence shows. The PARK brand has expanded to include ready-to-wear offerings, as well as accessories. PARK reimagined traditional British dress robe silhouettes, used fabrics sourced from South Korean textile artists, and played with modern French styling. “I realized I didn’t have to stitch it all together. I could play with all of these elements to create something unique. I could reinvent things over and over.”
> 
> Now, Park says she is on a “path to healing and joy”. Her most recent collections continue fusing elements of her personal identity, as well as tackling more avant garde design elements. “I want the people who wear my clothes to feel completely like themselves. I don’t want anyone to feel limited. The PARK woman never compromises her identity, not for anyone.”

*******

The glossy magazine lays open, face-down, on their kitchen table. Pansy’s face stares up at the ceiling, her set mouth painted its usual red. The coffee machine on the counter pours into her favorite mug, and though her eyes are fixed on the operation before her, she isn’t really watching.

“Hey, didn’t we go to school with her?”

Hermione had zoned out so hard she hadn’t noticed him come in to the room. She hadn’t had time to — no, it probably wasn’t great that her first instinct was to hide it. It was perfectly normal to be curious about someone they’d gone to school with. Someone who had ridiculed her for six years, who had made her feel small and ugly and unwanted. Someone who had also made her feel a little bit less alone.

“Yeah, that’s why I picked it up. Apparently she’s a pretty big deal.”

“So she’s Park now?”

“I think she was always Park, actually. They just changed it.”

“Oh, weird. Well, good for her. Seems like she’s still a rich asshole, though.” Hermione watched him flip the magazine over in his hand, look at the pictures, then put it back down—losing her place in the process.

“Yeah, probably.”

He kisses her before heading off to his training session. “I’ll see you in a week, right?”

“Right.”

Once her coffee is done, she grabs her bag and leaves for Paris.


End file.
